Amrita Shergill Marg, Delhi




Laburnum blooms whisk sanity

away from the wind; past

is a shifting



is pastel yellow-green,

picking purples from jamuns

  shedding over the jaded footpath.





Colours descend at


fragrance is a whore.




Moon becomes all the words,

where there is no language.


You are the silence I seek.




Memories drizzle

in times of drought,


monsoon is still far away.




There is no walking on this street.


Minds float like lighted lamps in the

river that desires,

transposing myths and reality.




The quest is for eternity,

yet time throws things

either changed or hewed,


for instance, that


proud, naked-branched tree

which used to be the muse

of our conversations;


a year is a testimony enough.




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